


Picture Perfect

by paulatheprokaryote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, F/M, Gen, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Masterpiece, Portraits, hogwarts portraits - Freeform, paintings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paulatheprokaryote/pseuds/paulatheprokaryote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Snapshots into the lives of the portraits of Hogwarts.</p>
<p>For Cherry_pop94's Inspired by the Masterpieces Challenge<br/>Gorgeous banner by blob. @ the-dark-arts.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portrait of a lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s ‘Oarsmen at Chatou’

Inspired by Sandro Botticelli’s 'Mars and Venus' and Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s ‘Oarsmen at Chatou’  
\-------------------------------------------  
I could never seem to tear my eyes away from his creamy texture, impasto in all the right places.

It’d be so much easier to move on, find a nice Renaissance man to pine after instead if only I could pick my ornate golden frame up and drag it to another corridor.

Even through the rush of students shoving their way to arithmancy or transfiguration, there he was, lounging carelessly on the shore.

His short, thick strokes highlighted the cavalier way he threw his head back everytime he laughed. His friend was trying to convince the Parisian women to join him in a small boat on the bank, apparently not successfully.

Every so often I swear he steals a glance in my direction and the oil in my veins seem to thicken. Then again, he’s bound to look this way occasionally, right? We’ve been dangling from the opposite walls for years now.

I can’t help but scrutinize all of my inadequacies over and over again. We are just too dissimilar. His flawless opaque canvas contrasts drastically compared to my glazed one. The light dances much more precisely in his world than mine. He had interesting French women to entertain him, I was tormented by chubby cherubs that didn't speak a lick of any language I'd ever heard.

He was vibrant blues and oranges, I was just dark and moody.

His skin glowed golden in the pigments of the afternoon sun illuminating his painting. My own pale skin seemed to be even more porcelain with brushstrokes so miniscule that the gradations were all but invisible.

He glanced over once more in my general vicinity. There was a sudden feeling of nausea that overswept me. Is that what love feels like? Bile rising to your throat?

I stepped toward the edge of my painting, tempted.

What would I even say to him?

I could offer no words. My sudden appearance into his portrait would be uncouth. No, as a lady I cannot be too forward.

I paced back to the middle of my portrait, ignoring the snide, knowing looks from the cherubs.

A thoughtful ginger girl paused momentarily in front of my portrait.

I narrowed my eyes at her. The children occasionally enjoyed harassing the artwork, but it was usually four wild haired boys.

The girl moved on, as the living always do.

A glance at his portrait across the corridor told me he had left his frame. 

I resigned myself to recline on the dewy, thin stroked malachite pigmented grass, rumpling my pale dress.

I finally found the will to close my eyes, feeling exhausted from my daily inner turmoil. What I wouldn’t give to be able to pick my portrait up and just forget his vibrant vagueness.

The sound of squeaky laughter filled my portrait.

I debated whether or not to chastise the giggling cherubs. While they couldn’t understand me, they certainly could gather the general idea.

I popped my eyes open, ready to wag my tongue, but a faint movement in my painting seemed to distract me.

At the very edge of my painting was the vibrant man I spent years wistfully watching. He was brash, forward even. It was quite rude to just show up at a proper lady’s portrait.

He offered me a wide smile, the vibrancy of his blues and oranges toned down by my canvas. His soft, blurry edges much sharper now.

He raised a hand toward me, signalling what I assume to be a greeting.

Instead of being properly affronted, I gave him a small smile in return and raised my hand as well.

My French was not passable enough to talk to a portrait that was painted by a Parisian man.

To hell with etiquette, this is the 20th century.

“Bonjour,” I tested my shaky voice, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes,” He beamed.


	2. The Dance Foyer at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Edgar Degas’ ‘The Dance Foyer at the Opera on the rue Le Peletier’, Vincent van Gogh’s ‘Vase with Irises Against a Yellow Background’, Jean-Honoré Fragonard’s ‘The Swing’, Gustav Klimt’s ‘The Kiss’, and Dame Laura Knight’s ‘Ballet’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edgar Degas’ ‘The Dance Foyer at the Opera on the rue Le Peletier’

Madame was shrieking again.

I couldn’t help but cringe from the ringing of her shrill voice.

“NO! NO! NO! Your form is all wrong!” She cried out, causing all of us to pause mid-emboîté.

She glided across the expertly blended wooden floor, frown permanently painted on her sour face.

She brought her hands to the narrow hips of Adélaïde, readjusting her form gruffly.

We all moved on, listening to her commands, step, a la seconde, spin.

If the man who painted us had an inkling of what he was doing, he’d have painted the toes of our puce slippers crimson as they dragged across the floor.

Finally, Madame gave us a break, content enough with our form.

The prettier of the girls gathered near the violinist, gossiping over his mindless sawing.

The plain girls such as myself were scattered along the barres, drooping exhaustedly like the wilted irises of the still life two paintings down. I unlaced my slippers to rub my bruised, blistered feet, barely registering that several other girls were doing the same thing.

The loveliest girl, Célestine, giggled as Adélaïde, the cruelest girl, whispered something likely quite nasty in her ear and glanced in my direction.

It was clear which girls the artist favored. They were sharper, more detailed. All around lovelier. The pastels that made their dresses were fresh, blending readily. My dress was smudged and smeared, almost like an afterthought.

Some of us exist only to fill the background, I suppose.

Madame clapped us back into position, testy that we weren’t already in it. I took too long to relace my slippers causing her to scrutinize my every move with a savage glare. Either the position of authority or the magnificent blending of her pastels seemed to make her less sensitive to people like me. The fillers.

“Chaînés!” She hissed. Chaîné turns were my most obvious weakness. This was my punishment for making her wait.

“Too slow!” She spat at me.

I stepped harder, pushing my aching foot forcibly against the wood floor.

What I wouldn’t do to escape from this incessant suffering. To leave the frame though. Well, Madame would never allow me to return.

“A turn without an accent leads to slow turns!” She gestured theatrically to me, causing my pigment to match the color my toes should be. Burning crimson.

“Widen your stance!” She barked fiercely, causing me to jump slightly.

Adélaïde seemed to openly revel in my misery, giggling all the harder. A particularly loud snort caught the attention of Madame, luring her away from me.

The spats of criticism were directed at Adélaïde now, leaving me smug and relieved.

More screaming, more twisting, more agony.

“Bloody hell, does that bat ever shut her trap?” An arrogant looking dark haired boy stopped in front of our painting, scrunching his face in distaste.

“Oi!” He tapped against the canvas.

Madame gasped at the rudeness.

I cringed, anticipating the scolding she would surely deliver.

“Do you bloody well mind? No one wants to listen to your bitching!” An exhausted, fair-haired boy pressed his scarred face near the frame.

Célestine, being the pet that she was, gasped in horror for the speechless Madame. I, however, snickered in delight.

The wretched woman deserved to be reprimanded.

“Just to let you know,” the dark haired boy added thoughtfully, “there’s a much nicer gentleman three corridors down that teaches ballet, as well. You might have a nicer time at his portrait.”

The arrogant boy pointed in the direction of the corridor.

Madame looked as if she would implode, face contorted and plum pigmented, but turned to us instead of the arrogant boy.

“Don’t you dare,” She threatened, her voice trembling with rage.

I weighed my options. No matter what I’d never be more than a background dancer. Undetailed and unskilled.

I strolled gingerly to the edge of the canvas and carefully placed my toes out of the frame. I wiggled them lightly. All seemed fine.

I pulled my body out of the frame, ignoring the shrill protests of Madame.

I found myself in a plush garden, an intimate couple pushing one another on a braided rope swing.

The girl smiled at me amused.

Everything was so vivid in this painting, not at all like the delicate pastels I’m accustomed to.

I paced to the edge of the painting, feeling the life in my undefined veins for the first time. I was liberated!

I jumped haphazardly into the next painting. I paused to glance around, grimacing. The vibrancy took a new form of a bright yellow. This painting was occupied by another couple. She was folded into him, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He was clearly offended that I had interrupted their kiss. He was wearing some sort of floral crown in a smock that seemed to be made of rectangles. She adorned a dress made of hideous, vibrant circles.

I dashed hurriedly across their portrait, not staying a moment longer than necessary.

The next painting was a relief. Just a normal painting of a luncheon by the lake. I graciously accepted a tea cake, but declined to spend the afternoon with the party.

I dashed through portrait after portrait after portrait, finally finding a familiar feeling.

Soft wooden floors and barres lining the wall, violin playing softly in the background.

“‘Ello, m’dear,” a bearded Englishman greeted me warmly.

“Hello,” I replied carefully.

Two other girls, much older than me, were stretching in the corner while chatting amiably.

“Would you like to stay for a lesson?” He asked gently.

I chanced a glance at myself in the freestanding mirror behind him. My features were more blended, as if by a brush instead of pastels. My colors were more vibrant.

“Yes please.”


	3. The Nubian Giraffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "The Nubian Giraffe" by Jacques-Laurent Agasse and Peter Paul Reubens’ “Daniel in the Lions’ Den"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Nubian Giraffe" by Jacques-Laurent Agasse

I had to run faster. Faster than my wobbly legs wanted to carry me. Having long legs didn’t necessarily translate into more speed. My head, neck, and feet were all in different paintings. Oil paintings seemed to slow me down, dragging my neck backwards. It’s too viscous of a medium. My dark tufted tail flopped lazily behind me.

I galloped through to a larger painting of an African savanna. Finally, somewhere to hide. Being well over five meters tall and brightly spotted, blending in can be a bit difficult in some of the scenery. I could never hide in the lush green landscapes of the Rococo period. However, in the paintings of the brush of the African savannas, my camouflage was nearly perfect.

My heart slamming loudly in my chest would give me away. He’ll hear it for sure.

_I am a tree. Be one with the trees._

I held my breath, listening for signs of danger. I heard it. The shrill scream of a woman, possibly the same Spanish woman six paintings down that screamed and tried to smack me when I galloped through her portrait.

“Where is Daniel? One of his bloody lions is chasing the giraffe again!” A human physician five paintings down shouted into the hallway.

I stretched my neck taller in glee.

“Honestly, they play hide and seek every single day. Can’t we get some rest around here?” The whine of the annoying Spanish woman echoed.

_He’d be here any second now._

I gasped for air. My narrow trachea meant I breathe less air in than other mammals. Running was nearly torture for me and I could only do so for brief bursts.

_Of course he already knew that._

Real giraffes, not ones stuck on glorified paper, have herds to protect them. My artist painted me alone in captivity, dooming me to a life of panic and exhaustion.

Twigs crunched in the corner of the canvas. I sucked in the remaining air I needed.

_He was here._

My heartbeat hammered incessantly despite the pleas from my brain to quell it.

The leaves rustled. I couldn’t outrun him. I closed my eyes, as if that would help. He leapt out of the bushes, golden mane gently blowing in wind that could not be felt. His piercing eyes danced playfully along the trees, searching for me. I tried to hush every cell in my body.

He peeled his mouth open, releasing a penetrating roar that echoed through the canvas. Every bit of the paint seemed to reverberate with the raw power of the top predator.

His tail sent the opposite message. It frolicked to and fro like a kitten about to pounce.

With a mischievous glint in his amber eyes, he leapt into the next painting, continuing the hunt.

I sighed in relief. Tension I didn’t know I was holding in my elongated neck dissolved.

I scampered to the opposite end of the canvas and went back the way I came. That’ll gain me some time to think out my strategy for today.

“Will someone do something about the animals?” The Spanish woman sitting in front of a blurry mirror hissed as I slowly sauntered through her portrait. I enjoy infuriating her almost as much as she enjoyed staring at her reflection listlessly.

I settled for an unoccupied painting of an exotic and strange forest. My belly grumbling, I paused to graze on the leaves in the canopy. I’d need more energy if I’d have to keep running today. The quiet munching and crunching of foliage between my teeth was just rhythmic enough to steady my heartbeat. I’d have hours before he’d find me again.

I stretched my long, violet tongue out to reach a particularly delectable green leaf when suddenly my body was collapsing in on itself.

_He’d dropped down from the painting above!_

I tried to swing my long neck at him, but he expertly dodged it. I nudged my ossicones at his face, but he swatted them away. He pounced once more, this time on my face. I struggled momentarily, but ultimately couldn’t free myself from his grasp. I gave up, collapsing my body entirely to the ground. His razor sharp teeth glimmered in the patches of sunlight streaming through the canopy. He let out a paralyzing roar, signalling to the entire corridor that he had won for the day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any paintings in particular you'd like me to write about, let me know in the comments! I'd be glad to!


End file.
